


Meretricious -and a Happy New Year!

by the_consulting_linguist (xASx)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2018, And ensuing problems, Angst, Bisexual John Watson, But there will be a very happy ending, Demisexual Sherlock Holmes, Drunkenness, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Gift Fic, Homophobia and struggles with it, John is a good doctor, M/M, New Year's Eve, No Mary Morstan, Nothing done without consent!, Pining, S3 Canon Divergence, Sherlock Being a Drama Queen, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock Secret Santa, Some Humor, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Virgin Sherlock Holmes, and a fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-01 13:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17244665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xASx/pseuds/the_consulting_linguist
Summary: Sherlock is forced to attend his parents' New Year's Eve party which marks six months since his return from his hiatus. He was supposed to go with John, but a fight between them the previous day means that he is now John-less, desperate, and drinking. More than he should. Which leads to a number of problems, especially when John appears out of the blue to discover that Sherlock has been saying a number of things about their relationship, and a hangover morning which leaves Sherlock in the dark as to what the heck happened on New Year's night.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [softlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlock/gifts).



> This is my Sherlock Secret Santa Fic 2018 for @tjlcblr!!! Another one packed with angst, drama, and misunderstandings, but a very happy ending to start the New Year in just the right way. Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Note: please keep in mind that this is a little angsty in its first two chapters, and touches on issues of sexuality and its acceptance.

First there was pain. Then, confusion. As his head settled for a dull throb behind his eyes and at the very core of his skull, groggy eyes at last opened into slits, let in the grey light of the morning. Moving, even a single limb, sent a jolt of agony straight up his spine, and so he opted to stay still instead. His heartbeat and breaths were the only sounds clogging his ears, and for some moments this peculiar, internal quiet was so loud that the covers threatened to drown him. But the fog clouding his mind was dense as a full-bellied rain cloud, and he drifted off with fear dying on his tongue, before he could gather the courage to face it.

When he came to again, it was to winter sunlight, clear as crystal, spilling over the bed. The pain had lessened, from throb to a low hum in the background which he could ignore. He could feel his body now, and when he flexed his arm, it obeyed, coming to curl tighter against his side. After taking stock, he decided that he was a little battered overall, alright, but otherwise in good condition. Opening his eyes, he took in the dark green tapestry with the golden honeycomb pattern, the lush Persian carpet and the mahogany dresser by the large, curtained window; unmistakably his favourite guestroom in his parents’ house. Any imminent worries dissipated.

With a satisfied sigh, he turned to his other side and stretched like a cat, eyes closing as his limbs flowed and cracked back into life. His palm met something silken-pillow soft, and he moved to hug it close lazily, mushing his face against a sleep-cool, calmly breathing mass.

_What?_

He rubbed his cheek against it to look up an at that peculiar object, and coarse chest-hair rubbed against his skin. And then he could smell, and the world collapsed beneath his feet. Wool. Cheap white soap. Tea. An olfactory blend he would recognize anywhere and everywhere, a scent that could only speak of one person.

_No. No no no._

Breath catching, he pulled back to assess the situation as slowly as a cornered cat. The movement pulled the covers down his torso, and he was left staring in disbelief not at his pajamas but at his pale skin. And apparently, if his brain was not hallucinating already, the feel of the silken sheets against his naked body extended far below his waist. A quick glance at the man sleeping beside him, and from what he could see, their conditions were comparable. Or…

…John Watson was in a bed with him. Naked.

_God._

He rummaged his brain for any memory, any explanation, any sliver of recollection of what had happened, what they’d done-

_-No, no, no, no-_

And found none. Zero. Nil. Zilch. Not one trace, one clue. He was wracking his brain for an answer that wasn’t even there.

Panic swelling in his chest, he sat up to press both palms against his eye sockets until his vision swam with a myriad of tiny black tadpoles.

_Oh god I fucked up._

John Watson was naked in a bed with him, in his parent’s house, on New Year’s day. And Sherlock, for the life of him, could not remember how or why.

A chorus of furious swearing at himself began playing on repeat in his brain, over and over, any logical thoughts isolated hiccups amidst the numb fear paralyzing him with every passing moment.

Hangover. The pain. He was hangover.

_Hangover._

The party.

***

“Sherlock… Perhaps you shouldn’t-” Molly gestured vaguely towards a group of guests and various relatives of the Holmeses, clustered further away in the hall, their gazes on him eight pairs of twin needles.

“Why not?”, Sherlock breathed in exasperation, waving a dismissive hand towards her as he eyed the dull collection of cocktails and wines available on the small buffet.

“Deducing them only infuriates them more. You should not do that”, Molly hissed through clenched teeth.

“Oh quit trying to sound like John”, he snapped.

Molly slapped his arm -even if as discreetly as she could. “Well, since he is not here to knock some sense into your stubborn brain, and since you asked me to come with you instead so as not to murder everyone here out of sheer boredom, put up with it”

The words twisted something inside him, something raw and ugly.

“Sherlock? You okay?”

He blinked, and the vision of a desolate Baker Street gave way to that of the sitting room of his childhood home, the chatter and soft jazz music of the party returning with full force, as if he were holding his head under water and only just emerged to reality. Everything around him was expected, normal: the Christmas tree clad with gold and red and his parents’ countless baubles and decorations crawling on every surface, the same faces he saw every year since he was a child, just as every year he heard his parents say ‘we won’t be inviting them again’ after it was all over. Even the smells, the bickering over politics and poverty and the state of the universities nowadays. It was all the same, and it unnerved him, because _he_ wasn’t.

He was overwhelmed with the need to break something. Instead, he shrugged through a “Yes. Yes, of course”, and passed Molly a glass of red wine instead. He knew he should try to be kind with her, if he could not at least explain why he had called her to ask her to come to his parents’ New Year’s Eve party just that morning -when the plan had been, ever since that tedious, dull affair was arranged and forced upon him by Mummy and Mycroft both, to come with John.

Kindness was always a concept John stressed. John would know the pitfalls of an affair like this, could understand people enough to help him navigate this hostile environment. Without John to anchor him, he was as good as a fish unable to swim.

He brought his own glass to his lips, only to find out it was empty. When he placed it on the table to refill it, he found that his hands were clammy against the bottle.

“Sherlock?”, Molly whispered in warning.

“I’m alright, haven’t had that much-”

“More coming”

Sherlock placed the bottle of red wine on the table again with a thump, and waited stoically until he was addressed, yet again, by people he did not know, and had no interest in knowing. Turned out they were cousins on his mother’s side. Currently escorted by Mycroft, who, also pestered and frustrated, was for once weakened under Mummy’s constantly vigilant stare. It had been her impasse, after all. The first Christmas season after the return of her son could not possibly pass by without a special occasion taking place for the ‘family to be together’. After the usual exchange of dull pleasantries and introductions to Molly, with Sherlock mumbling his and swallowing down deductions calculated on impulse before they could fly through his lips, they assumed it would be a good idea to insist on extracting more information about his life and career. He dodged their questions with brief answers over a fake smile, Molly nudging him every time a rather impolite comment found its way in his words.

“Are you still working with that Doctor Watson?”, James asked- _Cambridge alumnus, cheating on his wife, his first attempt at establishing a law firm ended in shameful shambles-_ , a mean glare in his eye, as he looked from Sherlock to Molly and back.

“Yes. Of course I am”

“Oh, then preferred to bring a date tonight, I see”

“No. Not a date”, Molly corrected, returning the man’s sleazy stare. “I am a colleague and friend”

“Yeah… Sure…”

“Sherlock does not _date_ ”, Mycroft interrupted, his tone signaling the end of the conversation.

The failed lawyer ignored him. “Really?”, he feigned surprise, in such an exaggerated way that Sherlock wished he could punch him.

“Out of choice or…?”, the youngest cousin, Robert - _recently engaged, closeted, completing a PhD in applied mathematics-_ asked. Sherlock blinked at him, not comprehending what the words left unsaid could have been.

“He is not one to benefit from the merits of romantic entanglement”, Mycroft grumbled dismissively, against trying to urge them away.

“Not dating? Not ever?!”, Christine, the only woman in the group, as old as Mycroft - _recently divorced, single mother working from home-_ asked, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline.

Sherlock saw Mycroft rolling his eyes but being entirely unable to draw them away; they had found a fascinating topic and had stuck on it like flies on milk.

Standing there, being poked and prodded by people who regarded him as nothing better than an alien, drained him. He would have fought them off, some years back, would have exposed all the secrets hiding beneath their made-up faces and snarky smirks, thrown all skeletons out of the closets of their seemingly perfectly polished lives. Or, if John was there, shoulders square and feet planted firmly on the floor, beside him, they would no have dared speak to him this way.

_But John wasn’t there._

His grip on the porcelain glass tightened, and again he found it empty again when he tried to take another sip.

“Must be tremendously lonely”, Christine tutted, just as “It’s unnatural. A man of your age has needs, urges”, came from James. “Well, perhaps it’s better if he has his reasons”, Robert shrugged.

Their voices went out of focus, far too distant and uncomfortably close at the same time, crowding his brain, forcing it back, back, back, until it coiled into itself and hurt, until he thought it would burst.

“Yes, actually I do have my reasons”, he blurted out, his voice rising above theirs much more than was needed to get their attention, so that the conversations from all corners of the room halted. “The reasons being that I am not _dating,_ because I am, in fact, in a relationship already”

He heard Molly gasp beside him and nudge him again in a way that definitely meant ‘Sherlock, don’t’, but he ignored her. He was in too deep already, his mind a freight train that his words were slaves to, unable to stop.

“I am in a relationship”, he said again. “With John. John Watson and I. We are together. In a relationship”, he explained to the pairs of eyes, including his brother’s, ogling at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is so like "we're boyfraaands" at the end, lol.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More mess. And a fight. Things will get better in chapter 3!

“Yes, we get it”

“We’ve read the papers and all but-”

A devilish grin formed on Sherlock’s face. “Abhorrent as they are, and appallingly wrong when it comes to details, indeed we are very much together. John had to stay in London to attempt to prepare a surprise gift for me for New Year’s, if you must know” Wouldn’t Mrs. Hudson be glad to hear that.

He faintly heard Molly bemoan an exasperated ‘oh god’ beside him.  

The incredulity mixed with disgust and surprise on the faces around him only drove him on, a wild, tumultuous joy building up in his gut. They looked even more idiotic like this, entirely at a loss, and now hanging from his lips. At last. No longer the ones to dish out pity and scorn.

“You’re… Gay?”, came the petrified voice of his mother, who had, given the commotion, approached in the meantime.

“Mummy, we have already gone through that shock with me”, Mycroft groaned, walking to her to take the plate she was holding lest she drop it. “Now, breathe”

“Well, I knew that”, his father said, taking over from Mycroft because Mummy Holmes’ hands were beginning to shake rather badly.

Sherlock did not bother deciding whether there was sarcasm there or not. Sod kindness. John was not there anyway. “Oh good. Then you’re not that much of an idiot after all. I can finally see why Mummy married you”

“Sherlock!”, Mycroft derided, but the sheer pleasure of commanding the room was addictive on his tongue, and too much to stop him, not now.

“Mmm… And our _needs_ and _urges_ are very much met on a daily basis– does that quench your worries, James, are we normal enough?”, he smirked, gathering as much of his forgotten, flamboyant persona as he could about him. “He is rather insatiable, difficult to wear out. A rather gifted top, in fact. How difficult would it be to wear _you_ out, James? I suppose not too much, sure your wife and affair can both testify, given they both ae having other affairs besides you. Hear that, Christine? The smallest vibrator size available would fare better than men the likes of him. There, that could save you from another opportunistic marriage to a second buffoon _. No dating ever!_ ” he mimicked with a roll of his eyes. “And you, Rob, Robbie? Don’t you worry”, he tutted, “I’m one of the good homosexuals, not contagious in the least”

“Will you please stop?”, Mummy whispered.

“Why? Maybe _you_ have questions”

“Sherlock!”, it was Molly, who smacked the back of his head and proceeded to drag him to the hall by the sleeve. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

“Didn’t you see their faces?”, Sherlock chuckled, rubbing a hand over his eyes. In the silence that followed the lack of a reply, he realized that his head was as heavy as if a boulder was screwed onto his neck. and that the adrenaline of the confrontation was already ebbing away, leaving nothing but a shrunk wreck in its wake.

“That won’t bring him back, Sherlock”

It was like a splash of cold water onto his face. “No”, he murmured. “I know that”. The last of the adrenaline of the confrontation ebbed away leaving nothing but a shrunk wreck in its wake. No force in the stupid universe would ever make John return.

“You know better than that, Sherlock” She was already fixing her ponytail, arms crossed in front of her chest, waiting for him to do what was good, when all he wanted was to just be that. Small. Helpless. 

“I miss him”

***

“Sherlock, you can’t keep doing this”

“John, they were utter and complete idiots”

“No, Sherlock. Any of this. I can’t do this anymore”

Sherlock spun around, the words a whip to his very core. John returned his gaze from the doorstep of 221B. They both kept the other’s gaze until the air grew rigid between them, a physical barrier.

“Why did you pick on _me_ , Sherlock?”

“I did not pick on _you_. If you were being as idiotic as the rest of them, you only have yourself to blame”

“Okay, okay, listen. I am happy to play the fool. For you. Ever since you came back, just as I did before, I’ve followed you, and helped you, and held your ground for you when you were too busy or stubborn to see anything aside your egoism and pride and _outstanding intellect_ ” Scorn was thick in his voice, the indigo eyes that were otherwise so malleable in the light, now deep, and dark, a sea at storm.

“John I-”

“You called me a bloody _moron_ , Sherlock, in front of the press, in front of the whole of Scotland Yard”

“Why do you care what people think?”, Sherlock erupted, taking off his coat and throwing it on a chair on their desk. “It’s always who it’s said by, and what is said, and who will listen. What does it matter, John?”

“It matters because you can’t keep doing that, Sherlock. Words have consequences, and you still cannot understand that”

He paced the length of their sitting room, all caged tiger, energy hot and hungry within him. It had been that thing again: the rumors, the gossip, the questions. Who were they, _what_ were they. Met, without a beat being missed, with John’s denial, deflection, and incredulity. He was tired of it, tired of the way John always distanced himself from it, of the way his every word only solidified what he already knew; the impossible.

The entirety of the first part of the press conference had been riddled with this constant nagging, with this constant stifling of his any hope. With John defending himself against being what Sherlock was, what Sherlock felt. Ever since his return in the summer, ever since John had recovered enough to forgive him, he had dared believe that perhaps he could finally gather the courage to reveal the hidden truth inside of him. He had thought that Serbia, that his adventure and its purpose, would release the words sleeping on his tongue the moment he set foot back in 221B. But it had done the opposite. The nightmares, the doubt, the fear, they were worse. He’d survived this long to return to John; losing him over this just as he’d found him was not a possibility he was strong enough to entertain. Instead, he clung onto the intuition that a moment would present itself, a moment where he would know he would be safe, of disappointment, and pain, and heartbreak. But the moment never came. What came, constantly, was denial. And after sitting through another half hour of it, he had snapped when John gave inaccurate retelling of the murderer’s motive. And that got out of control, to berating and deducing almost everyone present, Yard and press both, for their mistakes in handling and understanding the case.  

“Oh, _I_ cannot? What about you? What about _your_ words?”, he whispered, his heart quivering with the burden of hurt that it was transforming into anger.

“What do you mean?”

“You called me an automaton. I heard you”

John started, and now what his eyes were filled with was fear.

“I heard you talking to that journalist, after. In the individual interviews. What else, John? What else am I? Abnormal? A _freak?_ ”, he spat, bitterness curdling on his tongue. “What else am I?”

“Sherlock you’re not-”

“How do you know?”, he asked softly, his smile a painful lopsided grin. He turned his gaze away before he could see the change in John’s. Before John could hurt _him_. “I don’t need you”

“What?!”

“ _I don’t need you_ ”, he shouted, pushed his voice to fill out against the cracks that ran through it. “You can go back to being _normal_ , with _normal_ people, and a _normal_ life without me”

He expected John to lash out, to fight, to deny. Perhaps he needed him to. What he heard was the John clicking shut. What he heard was quiet. And that was what frightened him the most. The emptiness.

When he woke up the next morning, John was not there.


	3. Chapter 3

Who knew driving on New Year’s Eve would be so lonely. He tried letting the radio of the car play, for a while, but the songs were repetitive, and so he turned it off.

He was calm, in that he knew what he was doing. But at the same time, there was something nagging at him, not leaving him at peace. Well, not an unexpected feeling, was it. He was driving in the middle of nowhere, just an hour away from the change of the year, to make amends with his one and only best friend -with whom he’d have a rather needless and bad fight the day before. But it wasn’t it.

He had had fights with Sherlock before. Hell, he had been through much worse with Sherlock before. He had seen him fall to his death, had mourned him for nearly a year and a half, then Sherlock turned out to not be dead at all, and they had surpassed even _that_. All those times, he had not felt like this. Not to say that his life with Sherlock was not turbulent. With and because of his madman he had felt things he had not felt during the rest of his life, and not because his life had been uneventful. No, that was not accurate. He may have felt the same things, but when Sherlock was concerned, he always felt them in a _different way_.

John slowed down, trying to find the fork in the road where he had to take a right turn. If he’d missed it… Bloody hell. He pulled to the side of the small country road and pressed his head against his forearms, as they were folded against the wheel.

He had complained that things were the same way they had been. Had said that he could not do this anymore. But that was his fault, too. One moment Sherlock was gone and then he wasn’t, and all John could do to not lose his sanity, was tag along the events of his life. He could not afford to lose him, not again. He needed the stability the recreation of their previous balance could give them.

Even if both of them were tattered in truth, and it showed. Even if that was just what he told himself when he could not be braver.

In that maelstrom, he had neglected to tell Sherlock just that: that he was special. Irreplaceable.

He had made Sherlock believe that he had returned from a suicide mission to keep the people he held dear safe, only to have the same treatment he had when they were still talking as if he really was a Sociopath.

A bloody _Sociopath_.

John felt as if he wanted to laugh. Then to punch something. Or cry. 

 Of course Sherlock would have snapped when he heard John call him an automaton. Of course he would have snapped with the way John had been behaving: his attention ever turned to the world outside, and not to them, to their relationship. Even if he had been categorically wrong to treat John the way he had at that press conference, it was the behaviour of a weary, hurt, cornered Sherlock through and through. Obviously.

And yet, what had John Watson done?

Seen but not observed. Obviously.

When Sherlock had told him to leave, he had left. He had left, and only realized just how stupid that decision had been only too late. Had felt the impact of that bitter, sad smile and the unfathomable depths of his eyes only when the cool air had hit his face. And then he was scared to go back. Scared that Sherlock had meant it. That he did not need him. Afraid that when Sherlock returned, he realized that the man he’d gone through so much for was not worth it, after all.

But no. He had to believe that Sherlock had not wanted him to leave. That he would want him to stay. Stay and fight. Stay and tell him that he never saw him as a freak, as abnormal. That no normal life, or normal people, would ever, ever be able to replace. And that, and so much more, John Watson should have said six months ago, when Sherlock came back. But he hadn’t. Instead, he left him in the dark, left him believing that his best friend would ever hurt him that way. Would treat him like everyone else did.

He raised his head. Where was that fucking turn?

***

“Stop drinking. Please. Sherlock”

“Why? I’m not… tttalking to them now, am I?”

Molly pulled the glass away from his hand. “Stop it!”, she hissed under her breath.

“Why are you even here?”, Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking up at her from his seat in the old armchair by the window, a corner relatively safe from the commotion of the party, which was attempting to return to its normal rhythms after his rather dramatic declarations.

Molly’s face hardened, and she vaguely looked as if she wanted to slap him.  

_Pah. Sssshould have seen that coming._

“Because that’s what friends do, Sherlock. Slap their useless friends sober when they are stupid enough to get shitfaced and put on a show on New Year’s Eve. In front of their _parents!”_

“Mmmm… Useless? Me?” He flapped a dismissive hand. “If you did not want to come, you could have said no. I don’t want you to mother me” Syllables slurred or spat out, his poised and polished enunciation now clumsy and flailing.

“Believe me, you are not the only one hating this” She rolled her eyes, and the world rolled over with them, when she paused for a slow, very slow, exhale. “Look, Sherlock. I know when you mean something and when you don’t, alright? When you called me, you were… heartbroken- shut up, I know how you feel about him”

He closed his mouth obediently, but still pouted.

“I regret saying this, but you two are so hopeless that leaving you to your own devices will result to nothing”

“Why do _you_ care?”

“Because _I_ know how he was when he thought he’d lost you!”, she shouted, struggling to keep her voice low. It was worse than a slap. “If I have to lock you two in a room, or beat you to a pulp to make you see reason, I will”

He shook his head bitterly. “John doesn’t… He’s not…”

_Of course he doesn’t. Of course he’s not. Why would he? Why would anyone ever? Sod everyone. But not even he!_

“I’ll just die alone” He threw himself over the armrest with a miserable, theatrical groan. “No… I wish for the gift of a swift, painless death. Bullet to the brain! Neat”

“ _Shut up”_ Molly pushed him to a sitting position again. “And he’s a wanker, that’s what he is”, she huffed through clenched teeth.

Sherlock shrugged, and the movement sent a million little rodents to gnaw at his brain.

 John was John. Sherlock was Sherlock. Parallel lines... Oil and vinegar… That sort of thing.

_What the hell am I even thinking. Reduced to contemplating cliché metaphors. Disgusting._

And this whole thing, the whole damned thing was the fault of sentimentality.

_Stupid sentimentality._

Besides, wanker or not, John was not here. Would no doubt leave entirely.

And what but an endless, insufferable, pointless bore would his life be, then?

***

It was Mycroft who opened the door. He looked bored (when didn’t he), but when his eyes truly took him in, he turned from idle, heavy-lidded frog to alarmed owl, feathers ruffled and all.

“Doctor Watson”, he said, as ever drawing out every consonant more than he did his vowels. “We were not expecting you”

“I know” He stood his ground, felt the odd kick of adrenaline punch his ribs from the inside. “Can I come in?”

“It depends…”

Fear bloomed in his veins. “Where is Sherlock?”

“He is here, Doctor Watson, and he is fine. If not entirely in control of his words or actions, for the better part of the evening”

“What do you mean?”

“He was rather upset. Consumed a rather outrageous amount of alcohol. And has been saying a number of things about you and your… relationship, that may not quite be of your taste”, Mycroft raised a cocky eyebrow, and tilted his head to the right, like an expectant hawk.

“I need to see him”

Mycroft shrugged and stepped aside to let him through. “Suit yourself”.

Spotting Sherlock’s parents was easier than he had imagined. Their younger son was a perfect blend of them both, his father’s quirky mouth and his mother’s eyes. Which widened in shock when she saw him. “Good god it’s him”

“Him? Oh dear”

The guests and relatives near the old couple stared in equal measure. “Thought he said he would stay in London? For a surprise?” One said innocently.

Before he could quite comprehend what the fuss was all about, father Holmes was shaking his hand. “Sherlock told us everything. Maybe a little too much, but”

“Everything?”, John echoed.

“It’s good that he has someone, at last”, Mummy Holmes tried to appear cheerful. “Even though… With Mycroft being… You know… We were hoping we still had a chance for grandchildren, but. As long as he’s happy…”

“I am afraid I don’t understand”

“Oh come on, now, it’s okay, we know, now. It’s alright”, father Holmes’s lips, but not eyes, smiled. He had the face of a man who was trying too hard to like the taste of a bite of lemon rind -and failing.

John frowned. He knew that tone. “I’m sorry, _what_ exactly is alright?”

“That you’re both… You know… Homosexuals”

“The term is gay man, Mummy”, Mycroft cut in. John had not seen him approach to stand behind him.

“Well, that. All these labels”, she laughed, but it sounded more like she was choking.

“But please, do encourage him to be… _discreet_. Noone wants to know about their son’s sex life. Don’t care what he does in his bed, it’s his right, after all if he likes… that, but” father Holmes grimaced, his mouth slanting downwards -just like Sherlock’s did when he was displeased.

“Well, it’s far better than him not doing anything _at all!_ ”, Mummy chuckled.

“At least he has a normal urge -if not an entirely normal outlet”

John felt Mycroft straighten to his full height, as if the words had cut through him, too.

“Um… Yeah. Yeah, of course”, John cleared his throat, his brain trying to put the puzzle pieces together, one by one. Sherlock had gotten drunk and told his family that they were together. In rather explicit terms.

“Come on, Doctor Watson”, Mycroft whispered. “Nothing else to see here”

Something clicked in him, a switch flicking on. Or perhaps, off.

Is _that_ how they had treated _Sherlock_?

_The hints that spoke and yearned for something tantalizing and yet forbidden beneath the surface. That were determined to unearth it. The questions that stung because they struck too close to home._

_‘Why do you care about what people think, John? It’s always who it’s said by, and what is said, and who will listen. What does it matter, John?’_

_‘What else am I?’_

_‘How do you know?’_

“Yeah, actually. He sometimes tends to do that. Oversharing and all. I find it adorable, to be honest”, the words flowed without him needing to so much as think, even though his heart was quivering, fear thick at the base of his throat, fear of threats coming true, of comparisons and retribution, instilled in him since he was too small to recognize it, to be able to fight it, and living on within him. Waking with every hint, every suggestion. “He does it when he misses me. Should not have let him think he’d spend New Year’s Eve without me, not for a moment”

His eyes scanned the room in search of him, of the familiar lanky figure with the sharp cheekbones and melancholy eyes. Slumped in an armchair and pouting, he had been easy to miss. Molly standing by his side was what gave him away. “Excuse me”

He was aware of the stares pinned on his back as he walked to him, dragging his steps with their weight. Maybe slowing him down. Not stopping him.

“Hey, gorgeous”, he murmured when he stood in front of the armchair at last, voice husky with the breaths that were clawing their way through him. He leaned in before he could register Molly’s gasp, or the hurt and disbelief in Sherlock’s eyes. “I missed you, you git” His lips pressed against a pale, cold cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mess, no? (was anyone expecting that? lol)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As requested: **This is the tooth-rotting fluff chapter** 😊

There was no telling how it had happened.

As far as he could remember, the previous night he had been moping just how John-less he was, and just how much more he was about to be, nursing more than a few bottles of wine in the process despite Molly’s efforts to keep him as sober as possible.

Nothing in that scenario predicted him waking up, stark-naked, with a -Half naked? Entirely naked? He was not about to look to make sure, for one- John Watson in his bed.

And yet here he was.

Nothing he had dared imagine for mornings-after included him having no recollection of the night before, or an abhorrent, still-unresolved fight between them to have taken place two nights before.

No, no matter how ashamed of this he was, his daydreams of mornings-after were much more sappy and worry-free than that. Usually included breakfast in bed, long soaks in the tub together, maybe slow-dancing in the kitchen to a tune hummed between them, his bare feet cold against the tiles and John’s toes, John’s body warm and still sleep-soft in his arms.

 _Holding._  

He had expected that being held was what he’d want the most. Especially after Serbia, after he found that the wounds on his body were the easiest ones to heal. But missing John had been so visceral, it had made certain memories too precious to touch, had smoothed out the details to a throb of _lack._ So after his return, when every-day life became a novelty again, he discovered that his need to love was just as dire as his need to be loved. Because of the way John’s eyes crinkled when he laughed, because he never let them run out of milk, because he bit the inside of his lip when unsure, because he straightened to his full height and stood firmly beside him every time there was a hint of danger, real, false-alarm or insignificant, from a thug with a knife, to reporters crowding them, to Mrs. Hudson complaining about the clatter in their flat. Because John himself was oblivious of always doing this. Because when John was sad, Sherlock’s whole world was grey and gloomy with him.

In all of Sherlock’s daydreams, John was full of sun-warm smiles and honey-sweet endearments.

But this was no daydream.

_Words have consequences, Sherlock._

A stinging cold spread through him.

_This was not the way things were supposed to happen._

He looked around in search of his clothes but saw nothing placed close enough to allow him to reach without ending up in a compromising state if John woke. His alternative was the sheet. To allow him to get to the bathroom at least. He’d see what he’d do from then on. He could do anything as long as he got out of here without waking John. He could face the bloody consequences, try to understand what the hell had taken place last night and then gather his broken pieces. Doubtful if he had enough time to avoid having a panic attack now. As in: right now. His hands were already shaking.

_Plan. Need a plan._

_Think, damn you!_

He shook his head, which turned his vision blurry with pain, and struggled to concentrate. The sheet. Right. The sheet John was also using. And had wrapped around his body as if his life depended on being as close to it as possible.

Neat.

He was so frustrated, and fed-up, and _tired,_ that he wanted to cry.

_Then what is the blasted plan?_

“Good morning”

_Doomed._

“You okay?”

He managed a nod, and kept his gaze locked on the honeycomb pattern of the walls. Trying to count its cells. Bracing.

“Headache?”

He shrugged, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

“Will get you some paracetamol, alright?”

“Alright” Voice hoarse, unrecognizable.

He had never told John that despite how good he’d gotten at understanding and not deducing him, it was always difficult to discern his anger before it bloomed, because it was so natural to him, another layer of clothing over his skin.

“Don’t try to move or stand until I’m back?”

He shook his head yes. Did not raise his eyes to watch John go or see him return. The mattress dipped as John sat beside him, offering him a glass of water in one hand, and the two little white tablets in the other. Sherlock only stared at his palms.

“Please? For me?” John’s tone was patient. Kind. The one he used when he was being his Good Doctor self, a mask of distant, efficient politeness and business.

_Will you tell me? Will you tell me what happened last night? Will you tell me if I have already lost you, or will you just go?_

But the words refused to be formed out loud.

“Take this and then we’ll talk, alright?”

***

“John?”, Sherlock slurred. His eyes could not focus properly, and he was blinking far too rapidly.

Rather outrageous amount of alcohol indeed.

He should not be finding the sight of his best-friend being so utterly shitfaced so adorable, but he was.

“Yes, I’m here”

Sherlock’s nose scrunched up as his face contorted with confusion. John fought the impulse to kiss it, because it would leave Sherlock even more baffled. He felt his lips smile, despite the insanity of the situation they were in.  

Sherlock inhaled sharply, opened his mouth, then stopped. Then did the whole thing again, only to very slowly drawl “I do not understand”

John swallowed, aware of tg stares still pinned on them, the shame in his gut responding to them, ever ready to strike, to make him deny and run.

“John?”

Sherlock’s expression was open, and vulnerable, and lost. And present, more present than anything else in his life in any moment.

They’d hurt him, and he had not run.

Sherlock never ran.

John brushed his index over that sharp cheek. He knew that Sherlock would not remember anything in the morning. It did not matter. “I never wanted to leave you alone. I should have stayed. I’m sorry”

He heard Molly huff “You’d better be”, before she walked to him, arms crossed over her chest. He straightened to meet her gaze. “What are you doing?” She sounded tired.

“Playing along”

The answer made her face twitch in an ugly grimace. “You-”

“Mycroft told me. I won’t let these idiots treat him like that”

“John, you don’t understand, he-”

“Leave my John be!”, Sherlock whined, throwing both arms around John’s waist and squeezing him close, burying his face in John’s stomach. “I missed you too. I missed you so much. Thought I’d die alone from a bullet to the head, which would be neat, but I would not have you, which is not neat, and then you came back -Molly, see? He’s a wanker, and _idiot,_ but he came back, he”, a hiccup interrupted him and only made him squeeze harder. “He came back…” he said again. And then started crying.

“It’s okay, darling”, John murmured. “It’s alright now” He knelt, slowly, so that he could hold Sherlock in his arms. He had never before seen him cry, not once -not real tears, anyway. Of course, he knew Sherlock had the capacity for tears. But the actual sight of them, of the way they streaked his face and turned the blue-gray of his eyes crystalline, the way they made the slender back jolt as if it could snap in two… He immediately knew it was a sight he never wanted to see again. A sight he never wanted to cause again.

“Better take him to bed”, he decided.

“I’ll show you there”, Molly agreed.

Minutes away from the New Year’s arrival, he carried a half-numb, snot-weeping Sherlock in his arms, bridal-style, up the stairs to the bedroom Molly indicated. Not caring about the dismay and shock of those watching them.

He placed him on the bed gently, took off his shoes, pressed a wet flannel over his forehead, held his hand when he complained of the headache ‘splitting his skull in two’.

Molly watched them from the door, worry lining her face.

“What will you do?”

Of course she knew everything. Of course Sherlock had told her. “Watch over him until tomorrow, and then… we’ll need to talk”

 “Don’t give him promises you will not keep”

“Wouldn’t do that”

“You’d be a dead man if you did”

He tried to laugh, but she was not laughing at all. “Did you really think I would?”

“I think you need to stop lying to yourselves. Both of you”

John felt the words catching in his throat. He forced them down. She was right, and he told her so. “It’s just… Difficult”

He had not been expecting her to reply. “I know. It’s not supposed to be easy”

“Yeah… That doesn’t really help that much”

She did smile this time. “My partner told me once, love often works one of two ways. You either love someone for yourself, or you love someone for _them_ ”, she looked at their united hands, at Sherlock’s squeezing John’s. “But she said you need to do both”

She left before John could reply.

Downstairs, the countdown for the New Year had begun.

John could only look at Sherlock’s face. He wondered why he’d truly run. All his life. And decided that it was because he had never had anyone to stand with him.

He did now.

There was cheering and shouting, the corks of champagne bottles popping.

“Happy New Year, Sherlock”, John smiled, pressing a kiss on that sweet nose. It did scrunch up after all.

“Is it time already?”, Sherlock groaned, disoriented.

John chuckled. It was impossible for his heart to expand more, and yet this man, no matter how mad he could drive him, how much he had hurt him with what he’d hid from him, never failed to make something new bloom inside him.

Sherlock always said that his mind was compartmentalized, each wing and room of his Palace dedicated to a specific, set thing. Perhaps John’s heart worked in the same way.

***

The pills were bitter, and he had to drink all the water to keep from gagging.

“Easy, easy”, John placed a palm on his back to keep him steady.

Now that that was done, there was nothing standing between him and John’s verdict. Sherlock bit his lip until the sensitive skin tore and bled.

“Hey, don’t do that”, John’s thumb caught the droplet of blood before it fell, and then pressed against the little wound. It stung, but Sherlock did not dare move. “Don’t do that, you git. How can you always find ways of hurting yourself, hm?”

His voice was cheerful, but Sherlock did not feel cheerful in the least. He did not need the pity, did not need to be eased into it. It would be better if the truth was broken to him now, just as it was. Ugly or not, he could deal with it. He could not deal with kindness; it always crept in small crevices and holes in his armor. Weakened him.

“John, can we talk?”

There was only a small pause of hesitation. “Yeah, sure. Want me to find you some clothes first?”

That hurt. Could John not even look at him? “Okay…” He gathered the covers tighter around him. John returned with a dressing gown which he placed around Sherlock’s shoulders. He looked away as Sherlock settled into it, numb but eager to hide the offensive sight of his skin. “Ready…”

John sat beside him on the bed so as to be facing him. He had not been entirely naked after all, but in a pair of boxer briefs and ratty pajama bottoms.

He assumed that the weight of opening this conversation belonged to him, and so began after clearing his throat. “What… Happened, what did- First, what are you doing here?”

“I came last night. You don’t remember?”

He shook his head no.

“I wanted to see you, and apologize”

“Apologize?”

“I should not have left Baker Street. We had an argument, alright, and you had been an idiot at that press conference, but I was an idiot too. I should have stayed and let us solve it”

“So… You’re not moving out?”

“What? Why would I be moving out? Unless… Unless I…” John’s shoulders sagged, and he rubbed the back of his neck.

Sherlock swallowed. The last acidic words, sending John away, had been his. “I did not mean it. What I said. I did not want you to leave. But… Now…”

“What about now?”

“John, I….I do not remember what happened last night, but I assume you will not be wanting to continue with this arrangement and, I understand and respect that, and I never wished to-”

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm?”

“What do you think happened last night?”

There was a lump in his throat, and it would not go away. He looked down and held the dressing gown tighter around his body, instead of replying.

“ _Oh_ ” John coughed, and then shook his head. “No. No, no, no”

Relief washed over him, but it had a sting on its tail.

“I stayed to watch over you. You threw up sometime at four in the morning. I tried to change you into your pajamas, but you were complaining you were hot, and… I could not really stop you getting rid of everything. Sorry about sleeping in the same bed, did not mean to… Um… I was just afraid to leave you alone, not with that hangover”

“Oh. Okay. Um. Thank you”, Sherlock murmured.

_Idiot. What a monumentally idiotic thing to even consider. Of course that’s what happened. Stupid._

“Sherlock, you were drunk. I’d never-”

“No, no, of course. I get that. Sorry, stupid of me, please don’t… Don’t mind me, I’m still hangover, I’m… My brain is…” he waved a hand dismissively. Wished someone could punch a hole through him to stop the pain.

“It’s okay. All is well now. I’m not moving out -never was-, we’ll have lunch with your parents, and then I’ll drive us home, alright?”

“Alright” He felt miserable. At least had an excuse for it. But still, this did not make sense. None of it. Nothing irrevocable had happened, John was not moving out, the argument was done and over with -and may have been pointless, but well, small loss, considering that he could have lost John forever. He should be happy. And yet he wasn’t, and had an inkling that he would not be, not any time soon. It felt as if something inside had broken. But well, it was his fault. Had he ever really been expecting to ever truly deal with his heart, to live in a word where John would reciprocate his feelings. Slim chance, that one.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

“Last night… When you were drunk, you told everyone that we were together”

“ _What_?”

“With some tantalizing detail, from what I was informed”

_Oh god, no…_

“And I wanted to ask…. Is this something that you would be amenable to? In reality, this time?”

“What do you-”

“I’m done running away. If… If I have understood right, if I could still have a chance… Whenever you want, if you do, whenever you are ready… Will you please let me know?”

His heart slammed against his breastbone, hard enough to crack it. He wanted to say _I do. I am._ What he said instead, was “ _John_ ”

And what John did was cup his face and kiss him.

Kiss him and kiss him, until every plate of armor opened to let him in -and then shut closed around him, too. Until Sherlock was kissing back.

Until close wasn’t close enough.

“Shh… We have time. And you’re still hangover. And the door isn’t locked”, John chuckled over his lips, that felt tingly and swollen.

“You and problems”, he tutted.

John nudged him, nose to nose. “I don’t want your father to have a heart attack if he walks in”

Sherlock winced. “How idiotic were they? Yesterday?”

“A lot” John tucked a stray curl behind his ear.

“Sorry…”

“No. None of that”, he was given a smile and another kiss. “But I wonder what the hell you told them to rile them up so much”, John raised an eyebrow.

“Well, nothing would have been from personal experience… Though that doesn’t mean my brain doesn’t with-hold all sorts of information”, he bit his lip.

“Ahuh… Wait. You…?”

“Is that okay?”

John pressed their foreheads together. “Of course it is. It’s all fine. Remember?”

“Yeah. I mean. I know that. It’s just… Awkward. I feel awkward”

“No reason to. And we don’t have to, if you don’t want us to”

“No, I do. I very, very much do. I’ve known I was gay since the ripe age of four, but I was just never interested in the… matter, before you came along -it seemed as dull as Mycroft”

He was surprised to hear John laugh at that. “Hope I won’t be that atrocious, then”

“You couldn’t be if you tried”

“How do you know?”

“I… Well, I might have a few ideas…”

“ _Oh_. My, my, Mr. Holmes…” John pretended to scold, but then wiggled his eyebrows in a way that implied different things altogether. “You know… We could stay another night… Or another week. Scandalize your parents for real, this time? Hm?”, he teased, and playfully caught Sherlock’s earlobe between his teeth.

“Watson!”, Sherlock tried to push him away ticklish, but John caught onto that at once, and began kissing his neck to tickle him more, his hands joining in, which was definitely not fair and certainly rather bold. He was succeeding in no time, making Sherlock unable to stop the laughter spilling from his lips, until he lost the fight and he was on his back, with John on top of him.

They stopped to catch their breaths, and for a moment there was nothing else to see, but the way John’s eyes sparkled with the winter’s light caught in them, like mirrored lakes.

“More?”, John teased, nuzzling the soft spot under Sherlock’s jaw, with a tenderness that made Sherlock wonder how it could have taken them so long.

John was looking at him as he had looked at that night-sky, so long ago.

“Meretricious”

“And a happy new year”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, it is finished! ^^
> 
> Thank you to everyone bookmarking, commenting, or leaving kudos. A very happy new year to you all!


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